Monster
by rakei
Summary: What happens when Clint gets so drunk he can hardly walk? He gets a bit emotional, no big deal. But what happens when Clint gets drunk and Natasha is there to face the consequences?
1. I Hate What I've Become

**A/N: **My friend has always loved the Clint/Natasha pairing and I told here I'd write a fanfiction for her...I'm not quite sure if this is what she had in mind.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own the characters and don't own Skillet's marvelous song, Monster.

* * *

_I feel it deep within, it's just beneath the skin_  
_I must confess that I feel like a monster_  
_I hate what I've become, the nightmare's just begun_  
_I must confess that I feel like a monster_

_Monster (Skillet)_

* * *

Natasha wasn't quite sure what had caused the loud crash in the kitchen down the hall, but she didn't question it as she sprinted out the door of her bedroom. She had been rather on edge since Loki's attack, even though she knew Thor had taken the man back to Asgard and he wouldn't be doing any harm on Earth unless he wanted to die a most painful death. Natasha still was a bit anxious, casting worried glances over at her partner, Clint who, the last time the female assassin had checked, was currently in the kitchen where the crash had originated. The woman burst into the room, skidding across the tile and stopping herself on the granite countertops. She did a quick 360 sweep of the room and put a hand to her forehead when she discovered that the alarming noise that the woman had heard had only been Clint and Tony, drunk off their rockers, wrestling. Their glasses of vodka teetered precariously on the edge of the bar top and the two stools the men had been sitting at were tipped over on the floor.

"What are you boys doing?" Natasha asked, suppressing a chuckle as she placed her hands on her hips. Clint looked up, having pinning Stark to the floor, and grinned stupidly up at her.

"Nothin', Tasha, absolutely nothin'." Next thing the archer knew, he was being flipped over and pressed to the floor by Tony.

"We're havin' ourselves a competition." This time, Stark grinned dopily before he was pulled down again by Clint and the two were rolling across the floor. Natasha stepped over the tangle of limbs and grabbed the drinks off of the counter and placed them safely away from the tussle. The redhead then perched on the kitchen island and watched with an amused smirk as drunken insults, taunts, and curses were tossed back and forth before Clint was pinned once again, trapped between the pantry and the refrigerator.

"Gotcha now, Legolas!" Stark chirped in a sing-song voice as he playfully slapped Barton's left cheek. Natasha peered over Stark's shoulder and could see that her friend was defeated—he was exhausted and too drunk to fight on, though she could tell he wanted to. He gave a weak struggle before going limp and sticking out his lower lip in a comical pout.

"Damn it," the archer muttered. Tony laughed a bit too loud before stepping away from Clint and offering him a hand up. The man accepted it, but both men were far too drunk to stand and once again ended up on the tile, laughing hysterically. Natasha blinked at them before sighing and turning to the island where she had set their drinks. She handed the cups down to them, along with a bottle of alcohol, patted their heads, and left. Might as well let the men drink.

* * *

"Taaashaaaaa," Clint sang, his head hanging out of the kitchen doorway. "Oh Taaaashaaaaa!" The man took a long drink from his glass, not noticing that half of it splashed onto his shirt. He was about to step out into the hall when a head of red hair appeared in the doorway down the hall. Clint waved lazily and grinned.

"Oh for God's sake, Clint," Natasha groaned as she stepped into the hall and approached the kitchen once again. She flung an arm around the drunken assassin's shoulder and began to guide him out of the room. She spared a glance over her shoulder to see Tony Stark passed out on top of the island. How he had managed to get up there, the woman would never know, for she was too busy trying to get her partner back to his bedroom while also coaxing his glass from his hand.

"C'mon, Nat," Clint whined, gripping his cup. "One more ain't gonna hurt me!" His drink sloshed a bit and it dribbled on the floor.

"Just hand it over, Barton. You've had enough tonight, you're barely even standing." But the archer was stubborn and held his alcohol out of reach.

"I'm standin' just fine!" He wrenched himself away from the woman, only to stagger into the wall and slide down it, laughing idiotically the whole way to the carpeted floor.

"Jesus Christ," Natasha muttered and forced the red plastic cup out of the man's hands and downed what little was left in it. It burned a trail of fire down her throat and she coughed. She had never been one for alcohol, but she was willing to finish off this glass if it meant she could get Clint to go to bed.

"Why'ja havta do thaaat?" Clint glared up at the red head and she rolled her eyes and she put her hands under his armpits and pulled him to his feet.

"Come on, Clint, you have to go to bed. You're going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning and you have no one to blame but yourself."

"Aw, whatever, Tasha." The woman could hardly understand the drunkard as his words began to run together. He reached over and patted her curly hair. "Dontcha worry your pretty lil head."

"Shut up," Natasha muttered as she kicked open the door to the archer's room and shoved the man in. He toppled over on his bed, his face landing in his pillows. He laughed stupidly before managing to turn himself over to stare up at his friend.

"Ya know, Nat, I really like alcohol."

"Mmhmm," Natasha hummed as she turned around to exit the room. "Go to sleep."

"I like it 'cause it helps me forget things," Clint slurred, turning his head towards that female assassin's retreating figure, which froze in the doorway.

"What…kind of things, Clint?"

"Ya know, bad things, like Loki," the man said. He felt a sort of weight settle on his chest, replacing the elated feelings within him with sorrow. "I did bad things, Nat."

"Clint…Clint, go to sleep." The woman took a step out of the door but she heard a noise she wasn't expecting—a sob. She spun around to see the drunken man on his knees on his mattress, fists pressed to his eyes.

"I killed people," the man sobbed. Within a second, Natasha was across the room and sitting next to him, her arms resting around his shoulders in an attempt at comfort.

"You didn't know, it wasn't your fault." But the man would not be consoled. He shook and she could see the tears glistening in the moonlight the shone through his bedroom window.

"My arrows killed them, Natasha. I pulled the string back and I killed them. I knew I was killing them and I wanted to kill them. I knew they would die and I didn't even spare a second thought." His words were sloppy through his drunkenness and tears and the woman struggled to understand him. She rubbed his back soothingly, but to no avail.

"It's okay, Clint," she whispered. But what happened next was not expected. The archer spun around and grabbed Natasha by the front of her shirt and flung himself on top of her. He put his face centimeters from hers and spoke in a slow, menacing voice.

"Nothing is okay, Natasha." She could feel his hands shaking. Whether it was due to sorrow or rage, she could not tell. "I was manipulated and told to kill and I didn't object." His voice was just a low hiss and it chilled the woman to her core.

"Calm down, calm down," Natasha whispered. There was a sudden pain in her cheek and it took a moment to register that Clint had just slapped her. She blinked several times in confusion and stared as Clint continued to hold her down on the bed, trembling and crying.

"Calm down? _Calm down?_" Clint roared. Natasha winced, expecting him to slap her again. "I do not need to calm down! I am a monster, Natasha! I killed innocent people! I- I almost killed _you_. I _wanted_ to kill you!" His words ended in a choked sob and he brought his head down next to Natasha's on the bed. The woman took in a steadying breath and exhaled slowly, calmly.

"You're drunk. You need to sleep. Please let go of me. I don't want to hurt you while you're in this state." Suddenly, Clint's sobs stopped. There was a moment of tense silence before he spoke.

"You think you could hurt me?" he whispered. Another chill ran up Natasha's spine.

"Clint…don't…" she knew where this was going.

"You couldn't even _touch me_," he sneered.

"Clint…"

"I could kill you."

The room froze. Natasha couldn't even hear Clint's breath in her ear. She didn't even think she was breathing. Then, Clint pulled back and smirked at her. She felt fear stab her in the gut.

"Clint—" Her words were cut short as the man's fist came flying towards her. She caught his hand in hers and tried to roll away, but it seemed that Clint's strength had increased in his drunkenness. She had a fleeting thought about how his attacks should be sloppy, but that idea was quickly tossed aside as he flung another fist at her.

"Clint!" Natasha shrieked as she deflected him again. "Stop! You don't know what you're doing!"

"You don't understand!" Clint yelled back. She felt his weight shift on top of her a moment and she noticed him grabbing something out from under his pillow. She took his distraction to her advantage and managed to escape, tumbling off of the bed and onto the hardwood floor. Natasha rolled onto her feet and positioned herself quickly, expecting and anticipating Clint's next move. From under his pillow he had grabbed his bow and his quiver. He held both in ready position, glaring daggers at her.

"Clint…Clint, please, you're drunk. You aren't in your right mind—"

"Shut up!" the archer shouted, pulling an arrow from his quiver. "I know full well what I'm doing! I killed people, Tasha, and there's no going back!" More tears. Natasha didn't know how much more she could handle. She really did not want to hurt this man. When she had fought him before, it wasn't really _him_. It wasn't his brain or his actions. But this was. Although he was intoxicated, it was still Clint. This was different and it scared Natasha so much that she felt numb.

"Please…" Natasha whispered. She quietly slid a foot backwards. Maybe she could retreat and call for one of the others to help her restrain him until he calmed down. Clint notched an arrow and pulled back the string. Natasha knew he wouldn't miss. He may be drunk, but that didn't change how accurate his attacks were. She slide another foot back.

"I'm sorry, Nat." Clint hiccupped and pulled the string back a bit farther. He watched the fear in the red-haired assassin's eyes grow and grow and just as she turned to flee, he let the arrow fly. He watched as she fell to the floor. No, not fell. Crumpled. Like a discarded doll. Clint sat there for what felt like an hour, silence pulsating around him as he stared at his fallen partner.

He hadn't done that, had he?

That arrow in her back, that wasn't his, was it?

No, no, of course not.

But then…why was his bow in his hand? Why was his quiver short one arrow? Why were tears running uncontrollably down his face? Why were his hands shaking so badly? Why was he suddenly crawling off of his bed and onto the floor next to this woman's body? Why was there so much blood?

"H-help," Clint whispered. Then he looked up at the still-open door of his bedroom. "Help!" he said a bit louder. He glanced down at his red hands and he felt his eyes grow wider than he thought possible. "Help! Someone! Please! Oh, God, help!" He was screaming so loud now that his voice was echoing down the corridors. He buried his face in his hands, not noticing as the blood coated his eyelids and cheeks.

"Agent Barton? Is everything alright in he—Oh, shit." Clint's head shot up to see Bruce Banner in the hall, frozen in shock.

"Help her." No more had to be said as Bruce rushed in and knelt down beside the redhead. He turned her over and straightened her crumpled limbs before finally registering the arrow embedded in her abdomen. His gaze flicked over to the emotional wreck that was Clint.

"What happened?" Bruce asked in complete and utter shock. "Did you…Did you two get into a disagreement?"

"Just help her," Clint repeated. He then curled in on himself and began to sob, his body convulsing uncontrollably. Bruce sat there for a few very confused seconds before scooping the female into his arms and carrying her out of the room and towards his lab as quickly as possible, leaving the distraught archer to his own drunken misery.

* * *

The next morning Clint Barton woke up very uncomfortable and nauseous on his bedroom floor. He stretched, feeling kinks in his back, as he attempted not to vomit. He sat up very, very slowly and cracked his eyes open. He regretted that decision immediately as a beam of sunlight hit him in the eyes. He brought his hands up in front of him to block the light and it was then that he saw the dried blood on his fingers and palms. His breath caught in his throat and he looked down at the floor to see blood there, as well. Clint choked and he stumbled to his feet and lurched across the room and into his personal bathroom, just in time to puke into his open toilet. He hunched over, head spinning, until he was finished and he collapsed on the cold floor and rested his head against the side of his bathtub. There was no use trying to hold back the memories from last night during his drunken stupor. Things were hazy—how much had he even managed to drink last night, anyway?—but he still remembered what he had done. He would have vomited again if there had been anything in his stomach. Instead, his stomach simply rolled painfully and he let out a sob and tilted his head back farther. He had shot his best friend. He truly was a monster, wasn't he?

"Knock, knock," said a voice from the bathroom entryway. Clint didn't even look. He already knew who it was.

"Not now," Clint muttered, clutching his gut tighter as his stomach turned.

"Clint, we need to talk."

"No, we really don't." The archer raised his head to look at Steve, who leaned heavily against the doorframe. There were dark bags under his eyes and he looked about ready to collapse.

"Barton, this is serious. What you did needs to be discussed." Clint leaned back again and stared at the white ceiling, breathing deeply as his head began to pound.

"Get me some Tylenol first. It's in the medicine cabinet, behind the mirror." Clint pointed and Steve pulled the mirror back to reveal the shelves of medicines and colognes the assassin had stashed. Steve found the bottle containing the pain killers and tossed the bottle over to Clint. He uncapped it, emptied two pills into his hand, and swallowed them dry.

"You good now?" Steve asked. He reclined back against the wall and stared tiredly at the man on the floor.

"Sure." Clint was trying desperately to keep his poker face while inside he could feel himself cracking each time he caught a glimpse of the dark red on his hands. He couldn't cry here, though, not in front of the leader.

"What…happened last night? Bruce has only told me his side, and he said that you were crying for help and he responded, only to find you over the body of Agent Romanoff, which was pierced by your arrow." The words hit Clint like daggers. He felt his façade falter slightly as his lips began to tremor.

"Yes, that happened," whispered Agent Barton. "I…had been drinking…a lot…" Clint gulped as more of his mask broke. His hands began to shake again and he stared down at them, palms down as to not see the blood. "I became quite…upset…" the man almost chuckled, but he felt this definitely was not the place. "I started thinking about Loki and how I—" his voice cracked "—killed all over those innocent people. Nat tried to calm me down but I wouldn't have any of it." His voice had grown so quiet that Steve had to lean in closer to hear him. "I guess I just snapped."

"You guess?" Steve growled. "You guess you just snapped? You _guess_ you just threatened her? You _guess_ you just shot an arrow through her stomach? You _guess_ you just almost killed her?"

"You mean she's still alive?" Clint asked in wonderment. He brought his eyes up from his hands to stare straight into Steve's.

"Just barely," the man muttered, looking away to gaze at his exhausted reflection in the bathroom mirror. "But you're not allowed to see her." Clint's face fell and his chin dropped to his chest. "I'll have to deal with you later, Barton, because I really need some rest. I'm sending over Tony to keep an eye on you, so don't cause any trouble."

"Don't worry, I won't," Clint said bitterly. He waited until he could no longer hear Rogers's fading footsteps before turning his hands palm-up and sobbing into them.

* * *

Clint slept off most of his hangover that day, his cheek pressed against his cool bathtub and his body sprawled across the tile. Tony Stark sat in the doorway, keeping himself preoccupied with a large mug of coffee, a newspaper, and some charts that he was using to plan another upgrade to his suit. He'd cast occasional glances over at the sleeping Hawkeye, whose face was twisted uncomfortably, most likely due to a dream he was having. He was half-tempted to wake Clint up, but the other half of him decided it would be better for the man to get some rest. He really had drunk a lot last night. Tony was lucky he was able to handle hangovers well.

Clint turned in his sleep and his face slid off of the bathtub and slammed on the floor with a loud _thunk_. Clint shot upright, eyes wide and he cradled his head in his hands.

"Oh, God," Clint moaned.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty," Tony said, rolling the bottle of pain killers towards Barton. "Better take a few of these."

"Thanks," the man muttered and he swallowed another two pills dry. He groaned loudly and fell back again. "How long have I been out?"

"I don't know, about three or four hours. Captain Stars and Stripes will be by soon to pick you up to 'deal with you', just thought you should know." Tony stared down at his plans, waiting to see if Clint would stand to clean up. After about ten minutes, Stark sighed and set his charts aside. "You had better clean the blood off of yourself, you know." The agent started and then stared down at his hands in silence. Then, he pulled himself shakily to his feet, using the bathtub for support. He staggered over to the sink and began to scrub his hands and face, as well as rinse out his mouth, which still tasted of vomit. All the while, Stark gathered his stuff and stood, tucking his newspaper and notebooks under his arms and grasping his coffee mug in his hand.

"Stark," Clint grunted as he turned off the faucet. "Do you think…Do you think I'm—"

"Save it," Tony said abruptly, turning on his heel. "Just clean up and change. Steve will be here in a minute." With that, Tony Stark left Clint alone in his room.

* * *

Steve flung open the bedroom door, revealing a dressed and clean Agent Barton lying on the floor, his dagger gripped in his hands. Acting on impulse, the blonde jerked forward and snatched the knife from the archer.

"What in God's name are you doing with this?" Steve asked breathlessly, tucking the blade into his belt.

"Nothing," Clint responded lifelessly, "Just contemplating."

"Barton, stop. You have to come with me now." He grabbed the man's arm and pulled him to his feet. Clint swayed for a moment or two but then began to walk forward until he reached the door. Steve stopped behind him and sighed. He put a hand on the man's back and tried to push him forward, but he wouldn't move. He slowly, slowly, turned his head and stared blankly at the captain.

"I shot her," Clint whispered. The tone of those three words seemed to turn Steve's blood to ice. Then, as if nothing had happened, Barton turned back around and continued forward. Rodgers stood stock-still for a second before snapping into action and seizing Clint's forearm. He then began to lead him down the hall and into a painfully white conference room. Inside sat Director Fury, who looked like the epitome of rage.

"Agent Barton, please sit," the man said with force politeness. The archer did as he was told and slid into the vacant seat that was the farthest from the director. "It has come to our attention that you have attacked one of your teammates."

"Yes," Clint replied emotionlessly. He went to look down at his hands, but remembered that they were now clean and held no traces of Natasha's blood.

"Would you care to explain what in God's name compelled you to shoot an arrow through your comrades' stomach?" Fury's voice rose angrily at the end of his question and it looked as if he were about to stand and slam his hands on the table.

"I was drunk," Barton said.

"_Very_ drunk," Steve chimed in. Fury shot him a look that caused the captain to shrink back.

"That isn't an excuse, Agent. Being brainwashed by Loki is an excuse, not being completely smashed." Clint flinched at the name of the demi-god. "Oh, I see the name still hurts. I apologize." The sarcasm stung more than the fact that Clint had allowed himself to show weakness in front of his boss.

"I have a feeling apologizing won't help?" the assassin asked, folding his hands nervously in his lap. Fury laughed humorlessly.

"I'm afraid an apology won't fix the near-death of one of our most valued assassins, Agent Barton. You can't just kiss this and make it better." There was a tense silence before the director leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I know you've been troubled, and that was most likely the cause of your excessive drinking, correct?"

"Yes," Clint said. Faint memories of chugging red cups full of vodka filled his mind, along with a half-assed fight with Tony on the kitchen floor.

"You were not all there mentally, were you?"

"No, I was not." Clint cleared his throat and met the director's eyes. "I was scared. I felt like a monster, Director Fury. So, I succumbed to it. I became a monster and by the time I realized what I had done, it was too late. In my drunkenness, I notched an arrow and shot it in Agent Romanoff's abdomen." The man was surprised at how strong his own voice sounded, despite his inner turmoil. Just speaking of his actions made his insides squeeze painfully and made Clint want to go back into his bathroom and cry some more, even though he'd never been one to cry. He guessed he could make an exception to crying when it came to Natasha, though. Barton was snapped from his thoughts when his boss sighed across the table from him and folded his hands.

"In truth, Hawkeye, Agent Romanoff's condition requires more attention than your immediate punishment. Once we are sure that Romanoff has recovered in full, we will deal with you accordingly. Until then you will be forbidden from visiting her and will be under house arrest." The director's voice was calm and cool and Clint could tell it shocked Steve and the other agents in the room.

"Yes, sir," Barton said. "I understand."

"You may leave then, Agent Barton." The agent gave a slight nod and stood before being grabbed by Rogers again and escorted back to his room. Once there, he was shoved inside and the door was locked, leaving Clint alone in his room and Rogers outside to stand guard. The man sighed, shuffled over to his bathroom, and stepped into his tub fully clothed. He sat and, mind blank, he reached over and turned on the showerhead as hot as it would go and sat.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you all for reading! There will be a part two up shortly, and hopefully it's as long as this. That will most likely be the final part, but there may be a third one, depending on how Part Two develops.

Reviews are always nice xxx


	2. The Nightmare's Just Begun

**A/N: Wow! Lots of story alerts and favorite story notifications! You guys are fabulous! 3 I apologize for how short this chapter is- it's actually half the size of the first one, but I wanted to leave it at a cliffhanger, so the length of the chapter took a pretty staggering blow. I'll begin Part Three ASAP, but I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow and internet access isn't going to be guaranteed. Hopefully I can finish and upload part three before I head out.**

**Thanks again guys, and enjoy 3**

* * *

One months and three days. That's how long Agent Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, has been under house arrest. He's only allowed out for (supervised) walks and to retrieve his meals from the kitchen. No one speaks with him. He doesn't attempt to make conversation. There was no need to. There was nothing to be said, anyway. So, Clint stayed confined to his room, ticking off the days on his little day calendar on his desk. All of his weapons had been confiscated, locked away where Clint could never hope to find them without being caught first, so he really had nothing to do during his imprisonment. Some days he would read, but they were all books he's read before. Others he would simply sit on his bed, motionless, thinking and thinking and worrying and he would appear as if in a trance whenever his guard would open the door to see why he was keeping so quiet. Then, there were the day he would silently crack open his window and sit on the roof. He didn't try to escape—oh, no, there was no point in that. Not only was it a twenty story drop to the ground without any reliable foot and hand holds, but Clint honestly found no reason to run. If anything, he found only reasons to stay. Many of those reasons concerned Natasha. She meant too much to him. He couldn't just leave her, especially after what he had done. He had to show her he was sorry. He had to make it up to her. The only reason he stayed and didn't just jump to his death was for Natasha. He thinks that Fury knew that, so that's why he never bothered to board up his window.

Today was the fourth day of Clint's second month in confinement and when he woke up that morning, he had a feeling something was different, and it wasn't just that all of the Avengers (minus Natasha and Thor) were currently in his room bustling about. The air seemed heavier in the room—an air of anticipation and anxiety. The man coughed, sitting up in bed. The men in his room jolted and turned to Barton with uneasy smiles. The archer slid his legs out from under his sheet and swung them over the side of his bed in awkward silence. He stood and shuffled over to his closet where he grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He pulled the pants on over his boxers and put on the shirt as he meandered over to his bathroom, ignoring everyone in his room. Of course, he was curious as to what they were doing in there but he wasn't in the mood to strike up a conversation. So, he just went about his morning routine as usual. Clothes, showers, teeth, hair, shave, et cetera. But, he was stopped short just of step two by a hand planted firmly on his chest. This hand belonged to Bruce Banner.

"Barton, we're allowing you to see Agent Romanoff today." Clint stopped short for a moment. He shuffled his feet, contemplating walking around Banner's hand and going to take his shower. Even though he thought of Natasha often, it still made him nervous to think of what would happen when he finally was allowed to visit her.

"Antsy?" Stark asked with a bit of a snicker. Clint cast a quick glare over his shoulder at the man who just shrugged and turned to Steve with a look that said, _what did I do?_

"I'm not sure if I'm ready to see her, Doc," Clint said honestly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I'm afraid you have no choice," Steve said with a sigh as he put a hand on Clint's shoulder. "She demands that she sees you." Clint blinked in rapid succession out of surprise. Natasha was demanding to see her shooter? Barton wasn't sure whether to think of that as a good or a bad thing.

"Well…if you insist," Hawkeye said, pulling his hands out of his jean pockets to wring them nervously. "How is she doing?" Bruce turned and ushered Clint towards the door as Clint asked the question. He completely missed the grim smiles exchanged between the Avengers behind him.

"She's recovering a lot quicker than I originally expected. Your shot was clean and perfectly aimed to kill, but Agent Romanoff's has been doing surprisingly well." Banner eyed Clint to see if his comments on the shot would affect him in any way. Thankfully, Barton didn't show any signs of being troubled.

"I'm glad to hear that…" Clint said quietly. He seemed to be completely buried in his own thoughts, so they walked the rest of the way to the infirmary in silence. Clint kept his thoughts mainly focused on what he was going to say to his partner when he approached her bedside. He couldn't just say, "Oh, yeah, hey, sorry for kind of shooting you through the stomach. Still friends, right?" He had to think of something sincere and honest—something that could somehow convey to Natasha that he was truly sorry for what he had done. She didn't have to forgive him if she chose not to—as long as she knew how Clint felt. He began to feel more and more nervous the closer they got, his mind spinning dizzily. Banner took the handle of the door in his hands and cast an expectant glance over at Clint, who nodded curtly for him to open the door, which he did. The door swung open to reveal Agent Romanoff on a hospital bed, IVs hooked to her skin while a heart monitor beeped quietly nearby. She turned her head towards the door and locked eyes with Clint, who almost stumbled backwards out of the door. Natasha, despite being in recovery for about a month, still looked a bit sickly. Her skin was pale and her eyes were slightly sunken in. She looked exhausted and her bright red hair had lost some of its shine. The agent gulped, inhaled deeply through his nose, and marched up to her bedside and sat down on the stool next to it.

"Hey there," Clint said quietly. _Idiot_, he thought to himself, _is that the best you can come up with? 'Hey there'? You're pathetic_.

"You look like shit," Natasha said. Her voice didn't seem to match her current physical state—it was still strong and a bit snarky and it caused the corner of Barton's mouth to turn up slightly.

"You do, too, you know."  
"Yeah, but you weren't shot through the stomach, so what's your excuse?" Clint knew she was just joking around and trying to lighten the mood, but the jab still stung. He coughed awkwardly and shifted his eyes to look down at his hands. He had taken to looking at them often, ever since the incident. It was as if the blood was still there, forever staining his skin.

"I've been under house arrest," the archer said quietly. "Haven't been sleeping much, either." A hand covered his and he looked up at Natasha, who was smiling weakly.

"You've got to take care of yourself, Clint," she said. "And stop worrying. I'm okay now, see?" She gestured to the stable heart rate on the monitor and the fact that she was sitting up in her bed without any trouble. "Bruce said he's going to let me out tomorrow, too."

"That's good," Clint said as he took his hands away from Natasha's. "But they still haven't dealt with me yet. They're probably going to pull me out of SHIELD…" He looked away, staring blankly at one of the white walls.

"Clint, I've talked to Fury. I suggested counseling. We were all fools for not sending you to a therapist before, after what happened with Loki. We just need you to get your mind back and keep you away from the alcohol for a while." Her voice was soft and kind, but it just made Clint's heart hurt more.

"Why are you being so nice to me, Tasha?" he asked. "I tried to kill you. You should be angry with me."

"Oh, trust me, I spent a lot of my time here being pissed off," she said with a bark of laughter. "If I would have been able to move, I would have gone into your room and strangled you. But after a while, I realized that you were barely even yourself—just a broken shell. You need help."

"Oh, I know," Clint scoffed, "and I wanted some. But Stark told me just to drink. Drink and it'll take the edge off, he said. So I did. And I just kept drinking and drinking and this happened." The man swung a hand towards Natasha on the hospital bed and then sighed loudly. "I'm really, really sorry Nat."

"There's no need to apologize," Natasha said quietly and she put her hands on Clint's again. "We'll get you to see a therapist and remember—you always have me and the rest of the team, too. You're not alone."

"I know, Tasha, I know." Clint brought his and Natasha's conjoined hands up to his face and pressed hers against his cheek. "I'm glad you're doing better."

"Me, too…but, Clint, there's…something—" the man cut her off by holding up a hand and shook his head. Natasha sighed and leaned back into her pillows, looking a bit annoyed but did not object. Clint smiled and leaned against the female's hand. He closed his eyes and the two sat quietly together for some time, the only noise being each other's breath and the beep of the heart monitor. Clint thought about tomorrow, when Natasha would be released and what Fury would end up doing to him. Would he make him see a counselor? Would he keep him under house arrest or discharge him from SHIELD? He hoped that whatever happened, he was still able to see Natasha on occasion.

Among his thoughts, Clint became conscious of the heart monitor slowing. His eyes flew open in fear only to see that Natasha had simply fallen into a peaceful sleep, a small, content smile on her pale lips. Barton couldn't help but lean down and softly peck her cheek before releasing her hand and laid it daintily on her chest. He stood and turned to the door and saw Bruce Banner standing there, holding it open with a soft smile.

"She'll be asleep for a while. She's been awake all night because she's wanted to talk with you." He shut the door as Clint exited the room into the hall.

"Really? All night?" the archer asked in amazement and he set off towards his bedroom, Banner following behind. "She seems to be doing well, though."

"Yes, she is a real fighter. Gave us quite the scare the first week, though." There was a slight pause before Clint stopped and turned around.

"I'm really sorry," he said. "I'm sorry that you had to be the one to see me in that state. It must have been terrifying.

"Oh, trust me, it was. You were so far gone—to the point of insanity. I don't know if you remember when I came back to check on you after I made sure Natasha was in stable condition that night…"

"You came back?" Barton asked, eyes wide. Banner nodded and put a hand on his shoulder and started leading him down the hall again.

"Yes, I did. You were completely insane by then, sobbing and sobbing and staring at your hands and putting them to your face. I only stayed long enough to collect your bow and make sure you didn't hurt yourself, but it was very frightening."

"I'm sorry," Clint whispered and Bruce just shook his head.

"It's okay. I know how it feels to be insane and saying you're sorry to everyone isn't going to help the situation. Just listen to Natasha and get better."

"I will. I promise."

* * *

"They've been gone for a while now. About thirty minutes," Steve said, staring down at his watch. He looked up at Tony, who just shrugged. Both of them were still in Agent Barton's room, Steve doing a bit of inspecting while Tony sat on the floor with a magazine. Rogers had discovered Hawkeye's window unsecured and had gone on a long rant about that as he attempted to lock it and keep it shut and Stark ignored him, only grunting a few times to make it seem like he was listening.

"Yeah, the two have a lot to catch up on," Tony said, setting down his magazine. "They'll be back soon, I bet. I wonder how the guy is handling everything."

"He's an emotional wreck, Stark. He's probably not handling things very well. We should have gotten him help from the start." The blonde stared knowingly at the man sitting on the floor.

"Stop looking at me like that, Cap," Tony said as he got to his feet and stretched. "I already apologized profusely for getting him so drunk."

"That doesn't matter, the damage is already done." Steve sighed and sat down on Clint's bed, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. "Now we just need to fix it somehow."

"We're going to have a lot more fixing to do after this visit." Tony strode over to the bed and sat down next to the captain. He reclined back on his hands.

"Hopefully it isn't too bad…I still don't know why Natasha would tell him right now, anyway, after everything that's happened."

"That woman has her reasons, so we might as well let her roll with them. Unless you want to get in her way, then be my guest, but I'm not that stupid."

"You'd be stupid enough if you had your suit."

"…Yeah, you're right."

"When am I not?"

"Shut up."

The door clicked as it opened and the two men shot to their feet as Bruce and Clint entered the room. Bruce smiled nervously at the two, who exchanged confused glances when they saw Clint's content expression. This was the complete opposite of what they had expected.

"What are you two still doing here?" Clint asked as he approached them. Bruce stood by the door, giving the men warning looks.

"Just waiting for you two to return is all," Steve replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "How was your visit with Agent Romanoff?"

"It went very well. It was comforting to see she's recovering well and I've decided to see a counselor, if Director Fury will allow me to," Clint said with a half-smile.

"That's a good idea." Steve returned the expression. "I'm glad to see that you're coming around. Seeing her must have really helped you."

"Yes, it did." The man turned to Tony, catching his confused expression. "What's wrong, Stark? Is there a problem?"

"Yes, there is," the man said. "There's something wrong here."

"Stark…" Steve voice held a note of warning.

"Is there now?" Clint asked, taking his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms. "And what is the problem, exactly?"

"You mean she didn't tell you?" Steve's eyes grew to the size of saucers and Bruce jumped around behind Clint, waving his arms desperately and mouthing the word "STOP!" over and over.

"…Tell me…what?" The archer's arms uncrossed and fell to his sides, his mind spinning, replaying everything in his mind that Natasha had told him. He then remembered cutting her off and his eyes grew wide. "What did she want to tell me?"

"About—" Steve clapped a hand over Tony's mouth and Bruce rushed forward, too.

"Keep your mouth shut, Stark," Steve hissed. But he already knew it was too late. Clint was curious now and there was no use keeping it under wraps anymore.

"Let him tell me," Barton begged. "I-She was going to tell me but I cut her off. What's going on?" Bruce and Steve stared wildly at Clint for a moment before their shoulders sagged. Rogers released Tony and stepped back before gesturing at the archer.

"Go on, tell him."

"You might want to sit down," Bruce said, gently pushing the man back onto the bed where he sat and he looked up at Tony in panic.

"She…really didn't tell you?" Stark asked, his voice quiet and actually sympathetic for once.

"She tried to," Clint said, a silent cry in his voice. "Just tell me, please." The room was silent for a minute before Steve sighed and put a hand on the archer's shoulder.

"Clint…Clint, Natasha was pregnant."

* * *

**A/N: Reviews are always great, guys! Hopefully I'm able to wrap this all up in one more part. See you all later!**


	3. I Must Confess, I Feel Like a Monster

**A/N: Aaaand here it is! It took a full day of typing at my hotel, but I managed to finish it just in time! Thank you all for the reviews and favorites and alerts. As always, they mean a TON to me! **

**In response to one of the reviews: Yes, yes I do love angst. It's one of my favorite things to write, believe it or not.**

**Now, I will leave you to the final part of Monster- yes, FINAL. No more updates after this, sadly. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Has he come out yet?"

The three Avengers looked up from their places on the floor to meet the eye of Director Fury, who was standing in the doorway of Agent Clint Barton's bedroom. The three men shook their heads.

"No, sir. We've tried to coax him out but he just won't budge." Steve Rogers stood then, staring worriedly at the bathroom door that Clint was currently locking himself behind. The captain had attempted to break down the door, but Tony held him back and said to let the man have his space. There wasn't anything in the bathroom he could harm himself with since they had confiscated everything, including his razor, so it was best to allow him to have some time to himself. That didn't stop the men from impatiently sitting outside of the door for three hours, though.

"He must be getting hungry," Tony said. "I know for sure that I am." Steve glared at his teammate and he shrugged. "What? It's the truth."

"Go get something to eat, men. I'll stand watch here. I have some…_things_ to discuss with Agent Barton, anyway." Fury crossed his arms behind his back and waited as Bruce and Tony stood and joined Steve on the walk to the kitchen to dig up some food. The SHIELD director walked up to the bathroom door and tapped the wood with knuckles. "Agent Barton, we have a punishment to discuss."

"If you can't tell, Director Fury, I'm not in the mood for conversation," replied a very hoarse and scratchy voice. Clint had obviously been doing a lot crying in the bathroom for the past couple of hours. Fury wished he felt sympathy for the man.

"I don't care if you feel like it or not, we have things to deal with and you need to get out here and deal with them." His voice was hard and demanding and he hoped it would get the archer to realize the intensity of the situation, but there wasn't any sound of movement from within. "Do I need to call Rogers and Stark back here to knock the door down?" Still no noises. "I'll ask Banner to Hulk up, I swear to God." Nothing. "Well fuck you, too, Barton; I'm getting the big guns." The man then turned briskly from the door and exited, summoning a few agents to keep watch outside of the bedroom door.

* * *

Clint Barton wanted to die. That's all he wanted to do at this point. He'd thought about suicide before—after the Loki catastrophe and when he shot Natasha—But the urge was stronger than ever now. Now, when there wasn't anything to do the deed with besides drowning himself in the bathtub, but that was too loud and it would alert anyone keeping watch and they wouldn't hesitate to bring down the door and restrain him. So, he opted to stare at his hands, buried so deep in self-loathing that he barely heard Director Fury yelling and threatening and then, finally, leaving. His tears had long since dried. He seemed to have cried himself out of tears entirely because there was no doubt he wanted to cry some more.

When Steve had revealed to Clint that he had killed Natasha's child with his arrow, he had sat still for a long time—so long that his teammates feared for him. He had gotten lost in the memories of the night after he had regained his mind from Loki and Thor had taken him back to Asgard. He never denied that he and Natasha had a very…enjoyable evening that had ultimately ended in sex. Neither of them had been drinking and both had consented and it had brought the two even closer than they had thought possible. But Natasha had never revealed to Clint that he had gotten her pregnant. Or was it even his child? He faintly remembered squeaking out the question to Banner and all he did was nod sadly. That's when Clint had stumbled to his feet and ran straight into the bathroom. He slammed the door, locked it, and proceeded to lose what little food he had in his stomach. Then, he sat inside the bathtub and cried, staring at his hands. He became delusional after a while and he saw blood everywhere—on the walls, on his clothes, and all over his fingers. Only this time it just wasn't Natasha's blood—it was the blood of his child that he had killed in his own drunken rage with an arrow from his bow. He found himself wondering about the child and what their name would have been. What if the child would have grown up to be the one to cure cancer or diabetes or be his successor in the Avengers? What if he had killed the person who was destined to save the world? That, of course, just made Clint feel even worse and caused him to sob in agony until he ended up passing out in the tub for a half hour. He dreamt, but they were all nightmares plagued with the night he shot Natasha and he woke up in a cold sweat and cried once again. And here he was now, standing in front of his sink, looking from his pale reflection to his hands until he finally slid to the floor and stared at the ceiling. The archer stayed like that for long while, thinking and thinking until there was nothing to think about. A weight seemed to settle in his stomach and he wanted to throw up again, but he knew nothing would come up. He turned his head towards the door, studying the wood without really seeing, and something clicked in his head. The agents may have taken his weapons, but he still had one thing. Carefully, Clint stood and unlocked the door before silently opening it a crack. No one was there. Director Fury and the other Avengers had yet to return, so Barton slipped out of the door and went to his bedside table. He grabbed a notebook and a pen from the drawer underneath the tabletop and hastily scribbled the words "Sorry Natasha. I love you" on a piece of paper before ripping it out and carrying it over to his window. He smirked at the attempt to seal his window, most likely performed by Steve. The Cap would be the one to do that. Luckily, the sealing job hadn't been very effective because Clint easily broke through it and slide the window up. He placed his note on the sill before stepping out onto the roof.

There was a cool breeze coming from the west that caused Hawkeye to smile a bit. The sun shone a bit too brightly overhead for what was about to occur, but the man preferred it this way—might as well be a perfect, sunny day on the day he died. He always liked these sorts of days because the air was clear and it was easy for him to see everything around him. Agent Barton inhaled deeply and shut his eyes before shedding his jacket and tossing it back in through the window. He crept slowly to the edge, glancing down over the city far, far below. There would be no surviving this unless you were, say, the Hulk or Thor. There was no possible way for a normal human like Clint to survive. This thought caused the man to smile just a bit more, despite how sadistic it was.

"Sorry, Tasha," Clint said to the clouds as he turned his head upwards. "I've probably apologized to you a million times by now, but one more time won't hurt. I'm sorry. I would pay anything to be able to say I'm sorry to our baby, but I have a feeling I'll be going in the opposite direction they did when I die." He laughed humorlessly and looked down again before sliding a bit closer.

Then, Agent Clint Barton, one of the famous Avengers, closed his eyes and stepped over the edge.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff looked up from her book as her door swung open. Director Fury stood in the hall, looking rather serious. The woman slid her thumb between the pages of her book and closed it as she reclined into her pillow and raised a brow.

"How may I help you, sir?" The man entered and approached her bedside, examining the IVs and heart monitor with a critical eye.

"Didn't Doctor Banner say you were being released soon?"

"Ah, yes, he did. He just wants to make sure I have all of the care possible before he allows me out." Fury nodded and looked down at Natasha before sighing and sitting down on the stool Clint Barton had sat on not three hours before.

"We need you right now, Agent Romanoff. There's been an issue with Agent Barton that requires your assistance." Natasha's eyes grew wide and she took her thumb from her book page and set it aside.

"What's happened?"

"The others alerted him of the results of him shooting you." Somehow, the redhead's eyes managed to grow even wider. "He's not taking it very well." The director smirked, as it was an obvious understatement.

"Why would they tell him about that? That's my business and I should be the one to tell him."

"I'm aware, Agent Romanoff, but they took it into their own hands and now Barton is locking himself away in his bathroom and refusing to leave. We have a feeling your presence may help." The man stood from the stool and turned to the door. "Banner is in the hall to assist with removing the drips." As that was said, Bruce entered the room and began taking out the IVs and unhooking the monitor. "I expect you to be dressed and in the hall in five, Romanoff." Fury stepped out of the room and shut the door and Natasha jumped out of the bed and stripped out of her gown, unconscious of Banner, who still turned away respectfully as she grabbed her clothes from a cabinet and pulled them on.

"Thank you so much for your help, Doc." Natasha swooped by for a quick half-hug before racing from the room to join Fury and Agent Hill, who had accompanied him to her room. They escorted her to Clint's room and the agents guarding the door were excused. At that moment, Steve and Tony returned from the kitchen, both holding half-eaten sandwiches.

"Oh, hey Natasha," Steve said, smiling politely. "Glad to see you up and moving."

"Yeah, I'd be glad, too, but under the circumstances…" She glanced at the door as her hand wrapped around the metal handle. She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Her eyes scanned the room and saw that the bathroom door was open. Didn't Fury say Clint had been locking himself in there? She stepped onto the carpeted floor and noticed the open window and, beyond the sill on the roof, Clint Barton falling forward.

"No!"

* * *

"No!"

Clint's arms wind milled wildly. That voice. He knew that voice far too well. He reached for anything to grab onto, but he knew there was nothing. Natasha was going to watch him fall to his death and there was nothing he could do. He looked over his shoulder and saw her, standing in the doorway staring at him in complete and utter fear.

_I'm sorry, so, so, so sorry, Natasha, please forgive me, I'm so sorry._

* * *

Natasha didn't even think. She seemed to jump into action at inhuman speed. She launched herself out of the window, desperately reaching for any part of Clint she could get ahold of. Everything was in slow motion as her hand neared the hem of his shirt.

_Please, please,_ the woman begged as she tried to close her hand around the cloth.

Her hand clenched around thin air.

* * *

He felt her hand miss. She knew she missed, too, and he could almost feel the despair and failure radiating off of her. Now she was going to live with the guilt of not being able to save him. Clint just couldn't allow that. He blindly flung his hand backwards, praying and praying that Natasha would grab it.

* * *

She saw his hand. She knew he wanted her to save him. She cried out and grabbed his hand with both of hers and he stopped falling. He dangled there, looking up at her with the face of a terrified child and she could practically feel her heart crack. She looked away for a moment to yell up towards the window for the others.

"Guys, I've got him! I can't—" she felt his hand slipping from hers "—I can't hold him for much longer." A second later, Steve was climbing out of the window and heaving Clint back up onto the rooftop. Once he was safely away from the edge, Natasha cocked her arm back and punched him square in the jaw.

"Natasha-!"Steve gasped in shock. He tried to pull her back, but she gave him a look that said he better not try it.

"What were you fucking thinking?" the redhead shrieked. Clint was holding his jaw and staring at her, dazed.

"I—I didn't think—"

"Exactly! You didn't think, Clint!" Natasha swiped her arm across her arms, removing traces of forming tears. "You didn't think about how I—how _we—_would have felt! You didn't think that you have people here for you! There are other options for fuck's sake!" More tears formed and she wiped her other arm over her eyes. "Damn it, Clint Barton." Suddenly, Natasha was aware of the nausea in her stomach and her head began to swim. She felt her knees buckle and she collapsed. Clint rushed to her side and the woman batted him away. "Get away from me, Clint. See, if you wouldn't have been acting without thinking I wouldn't have had to get out of bed earlier than planned." She sat up slowly and massaged her temples, hoping her head would stop spinning.

"I'm a monster, Nat," Barton choked.

"You want someone to save you, Clint, I know you do." Her voice was only audible to the man standing over her. He stared down at his hands and slowly shook his head.

"I'm so—"

"Stop apologizing!" Natasha grabbed the front of the archer's shirt and pulled him down to her level. "We're both broken, Clint. You're not alone." She couldn't stop the tears now. "Ever since Bruce told me, I keep thinking about it. I never knew if it was a boy or a girl who what their name would have been and it kills me every single day." Her voice broke and her throat seemed to close around her words and she could stop herself from breaking down. She pulled Clint against her and cried and she could feel him crying, too, and it seemed like they were the only two people in the world.

* * *

They stayed like that for a while. Steve had politely stepped back into the room and quietly shut the window to give the two some privacy while Natasha spoke to Clint. No one was sure what they were saying, but there were a lot of tears and the sound of the female screaming could be heard through the glass of the window. Nick Fury and the other three Avengers sat patiently in the room, not attempting to make small talk. Each person was content to stay confined to their own thoughts so they could process exactly what they had just seen. One of their teammates had just about fallen to his death and they had just witnessed two usually emotionally-stable people break down into hysteric sobs. It had been quite an eventful day for everyone.

They all looked up at the sound of the window lifting. Natasha stepped into the room, her hand clasped around the archer's. She pulled him in after her and they both stood before the men, silently staring at one another until Nick Fury spoke.

"Despite recent events, we still need to discuss punishment, Agent Barton." The man seemed to shrink back a bit and Natasha eyed him worriedly. "I think it would be in everyone's best interest that you both—yes, I'm talking to you, too, Agent Romanoff—go and see a therapist. You can go together or separately, but you both have to see someone."

Natasha nodded slowly and gauged Clint's reaction out of the corner of her eye. He was nodding stiffly, as if he was only doing it because she was. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, but he didn't return it.

She had a feeling the road to recovery was going to be a very long one.

* * *

Natasha wasn't quite sure what had caused the loud crash in the kitchen down the hall, but she didn't question it as she sprinted out the door of her bedroom. She had been rather on edge since the whole shooting incident four months ago, even though she knew that Clint was now no longer on suicide watch and classified as clinically depressed. She was still a bit anxious, though, and constantly cast worried glances over at him until he finally told her to stop being such a worrywart. But, Natasha wasn't taking any chances. The woman burst into the room, breathless, and scanned the room. She burst into laughter when she saw Clint, Steve, and Tony staring at the tray of burnt cookies on the counter. They all looked sheepishly up at the redhead when they noticed her arrival.

"Um…we sort of…messed up," Steve said with a tiny chuckle. Natasha crossed the tile floor to examine the sheet of cookies and she just started laughing harder.

"You don't say?"

"Hey, do you think you could do any better?" Tony asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Is that a challenge, Mr. Stark?" The assassin turned to the man and placed a hand on her hip. Tony mimicked the poster and the other two men stifled their amused chuckles.

"C'mon, you know you can't bake, Tasha," Clint snickered. Natasha whirled around to face him and put her other hand on her hip.

"Is _that_ a challenge, Mr. Barton?" The entire room cracked up when the man leaned into the redhead's face, stuck out a hip and let out a sassy, "mmhmm!"

"Okay, okay," Steve wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "We messed up the cookies big time but…" all four of them turned their heads in unison to stare at the black masses. "Do you think they're still edible?"

"Only one way to find out," Stark said with a shrug. He grabbed one of the cookies and tossed it into his mouth. He chewed for a second, made a face, continued to chew, and then swallowed slowly. "Not bad, but…" He shook his head and Steve sighed. He grabbed the tray and unceremoniously dumped the ruined treats into the trash bin.

"What were you guys making cookies for, anyway?" Natasha asked as she hoisted herself up onto the counter. "And why didn't you just ask Pepper to make them, Tony, you know she's good at this kind of stuff."

"We were making them to celebrate my last session of therapy," Clint replied, sitting next to his partner. "And yours, too, of course." He smiled warmly and Natasha bumped him with her shoulder.

"And I didn't ask Pepper because we're independent men who know our way around the kitchen," Tony said matter-of-factly as he flung open the refrigerator door and began rummaging through the bottom drawer.

"More like you know your way around the fridge," Natasha scoffed. Tony turned to roll his eyes as he pulled out a beer. He tossed one to Steve and pulled out a soda for Clint.

"Staying away from the alcohol, Barton?" Steve asked as he pulled up a stool from the bar.

"Yeah, I think it's for the best," Clint replied with a nervous laugh as he caught the soda. He turned to the redhead next to him as he pulled open the tab on the can. "You got any plans tonight?"

"No, not exactly. Why?" Natasha plucked a soda out of the air as Stark tried to throw one at her in an attempt at a surprise attack. He stuck his lip out in a mock-pout and he turned to Rogers to mope.

"Banner said he was going to treat us to dinner. You know, as a celebration. It'll probably be better than burnt cookies." They both laughed and the woman shrugged as she took a swig from her drink.

"Yeah, that sounds good." Natasha smiled and then held out her can to Clint. "Cheers?" He eyed the can a moment.

"Cheers to what, exactly?" The woman thought a moment and shrugged.

"To a happy life where both of us are whole human beings for a change?" Clint blinked, then carefully touched his can to hers.

"Cheers."

* * *

**A/N: And that's it! I apologize for any OOC-ness in the end. I really wanted the finale to be a bit lighthearted in the end and I'm so sorry if the characterization suffered because of it. I hope you all enjoyed my story and reviews are always appreciated.**

**Catch you all in the next story xx -rakei**


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